


fall in

by pinkmanite2 (Pinkmanite)



Category: James Bond - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Drugs, Dubious Consent, Ficlet, M/M, Nikita AU, Power Imbalance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-13
Updated: 2016-05-13
Packaged: 2019-05-06 05:49:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14635374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pinkmanite/pseuds/pinkmanite2
Summary: “Do you fuck all your recruits? Or am I special,” Q sneers





	fall in

**Author's Note:**

> hey so this was a bigger project that was just never completely finished, which is why I am publishing it under my secondary pseud. this is a very condensed version compared to what was originally planned out.
> 
> this au is based on the television series nikita, you don't need to be familiar with it other than the premise is that of a black ops spy service that takes in wayward young adults and essentially brainwashes them into becoming operatives
> 
> excerpts may have been crossposted to tumblr (baewhishaw) before

“Good luck, Double-O Seven.”

“Thank you, sir,” the teenager nods tersely, masking his nerves with a hard expression. His commanding officer nods and pats his shoulder but Seven doesn’t respond, instead choosing to plunge head first into his graduation mission.

It’s been too long since he’s been outside. Seven takes a minute to just breathe fresh air and feel the sun. He misses the sky, misses the blue. Strolling up the pathway to his target’s estate, he appreciates the expansive gardens dotted with colorful flowers. He’s humming pleasantly, hands shoved into the pockets of his slacks, when he nearly runs over a small child.

“Oof!” The kid stumbles, falling straight onto his bottom. His mop of disheveled brown curls bounce and fall into his face quite humorously. Seven chuckles and helps the boy up.

“Hello, I’m Petya. Who are you?” The kid boasts a toothy grin, even as he brushes the dirt from his trousers. 

Double-O Seven smiles as sweetly as he can, gently shaking the little boy’s offered hand. Despite the past few years of undergoing harsh training, he can soften enough to appease the child. Seven bends down until he’s squatting at the same height as the kid. To his surprise and subsequent amusement, the boy’s bottom lip quivers in a pout to match bright green eyes that glare at him accusingly. 

“I’m six years old, you don’t have to  _ patronise _ me,” the kid huffs, emphasising the word that Seven suspects he just learned.

“I’d never,” Seven feigns astonishment, “I just wanted to get a closer look at those very fierce eyes of yours.”

Petya narrows his eyes but seems to accept the answer with a grain of salt. The agent can’t help the small smile that curves at his lips. That seems to trigger something in the boy, who then straightens. “You still haven’t told me your name!”

“My name is Jamie,” Double-O Seven offers, “it’s very nice to meet you, Petya.”

“Are you here for Mama or Papa, Jamie?” Petya swipes a loose brown curl from his face, safely pinning it behind an ear. He doesn’t relent his stare, even as Seven stands up straight again.

“Your Papa, Petya.”

“You better have an appointment because Papa doesn’t like it when people don’t have appointments,” the boy babbles, idly pulling at the collar of his polo shirt. “And when Papa’s mad, Mama gets upset. And I don’t like it when Mama is upset.”

Seven spots his mark, the secretary, approaching from the other end of the corridor. He turns to flag her down but pauses to nod his acknowledgement to the little boy. 

“We wouldn’t want Mama to be upset. Why don’t you take her outside to look at the garden, I’m sure that’ll keep her happy. What do you think, Petya?”

“Hm, good idea,” he muses, attention wandering to the window that overlooks the garden, all thoughts of Jamie now replaced with thoughts of appeasing his mother.

“Goodbye, Petya,” Double-O Seven bids his farewell, but the boy is already padding down the path, his fascination with Jamie well abandoned. 

 

~ ~ ~

 

“Just… just let me have a little bit. Half, alright?” The boy groans, barely above a whisper. His words are slurred together and his movements are sloppy. Sweat prickles his skin and everything aches, everything hurts. It just needs to end, needs to stop. But he knows that there’s nothing he can do to stop it. Well, nothing besides one thing. 

Another hit. Now.

“No more hits,” the agent yawns, idly twirling his handgun around in gaudy but lazy tricks. The boy rolls his eyes.

“I can get clean whenever the fuck I want,” the boy groans.

“I’m sure you can. But I’m also sure you don’t  _ want _ to get clean, Pyotr,” the agent purrs his birth name with pronunciation so perfect that the boy wants to smash his face in with all the rage he’s packed away with that disgusting, filthy name. 

“I already told you,” the boy’s perfect posh accent melts away into warm accented English, but he recovers quickly, “Pyotr is dead. My name is Peter.”

“Whatever you say, Pyotr. Not that it matters. Once you’ve been cleaned up, you’ll be assigned a designation to serve as your sole identity. Pyotr, Peter… all dead. We fix you up and kill your past. We only ask for a few…  _ favors _ in return.”

“Well I won’t do shit until I get a fucking hit,” the boy sneers, “and I’m not doing any more ‘favors’ for anyone. I’ll bite them and you can kill me, but I’ll check out before I do that shit again.”

The agent stills, the comment catching him off guard. Not that this situation is anything new; most recruits have gone through similar lives. Rough lives. No, it’s nothing new but it still manages to catch the agent off guard. 

“I’m not going to ask you for those kinds of favors.”

“Yes, well,” the boy sighs and softens into a murmur more to himself than to the agent, “that’s what they all say, innit, gov?”

The agent just hums. 

 

~

 

“Congratulations, you’ve completed rehabilitation and are cleared for training,” the agent grins, unceremoniously dropping a pile of clothes into the boy’s lap. “Your designation is Q. Welcome to the Alpha Programme.”

The boy snorts at that. “I’m hardly the alpha type but alright, I’ll play along,” he scoffs, humored disbelief dripping from each syllable. 

If the agent notices Q’s attitude, he doesn’t let it phase him, his grin only growing wider. “I’ll take you to the showers and then you can get dressed. You have a long day ahead of you.”

“That’s what you think,” Q rolls his eyes, “it’ll take more than a little prodding to get me to roll over.”

The agent gives a short “mhm” and ushers the boy out of the the cell and down a long corridor. The showers are at the very end. They’re communal style but currently empty, the puddles spotting the tile floor are icy cold. The agent stands in the doorway and promptly turns his back. Q finds the pretense of privacy to be amusing. He voices such thoughts but the agent doesn’t reciprocate so Q shrugs and begins to remove the layer of grime from his body. 

“If my designation is Q, then what’s yours?” The boy lathers the soap from the dispenser and works it through his matted curls, gently massaging it through. His muscles relax into the steam of the shower.

“You can call me ‘sir.’”

“I’m not six years old,” Q prods. He’s busy washing the soap from his hairline and thus fails to see the agent bristle at the comment.

“Double-O Seven. From the Double-O Programme.”

“Ah.”

“We’re roughly a decade your senior, give or take depending on the agent. We’re the programme directly before yours,” Double-O Seven explains.

“Then why are you down here babysitting rather than wreaking havoc in the field?”

Seven coughs awkwardly but answers nonetheless, “we’re a small organization. As I’m sure you’ve figured out, we’re hardly MI6. Our agents can fill any given roll given any circumstance. Be it the field or here at headquarters. We only allow the best to train the recruits. Think of it like evolution. Passing on the best genes, passing on the best skills.”

“Cocky thing, aren’t you,” Q murmurs, yet Seven still catches it and bristles again. 

Q finishes his shower in silence, concentrating on obliterating the filth that’s built up during his withdrawal. The water is nice and he figure he won’t have another time to revel in it, to enjoy it like he can right now. Some time later, he’s pulling the plain ash grey jumper over his head and the matching tracksuit bottoms over his bony hips. 

“Come along, you’re due to meet the other recruits,” Seven pauses to check his watch, “half an hour ago. They must be in class, then.”

“I’d rather not,” Q crosses his arms over his chest and lifts his chin in childish defiance. Seven rolls his eyes.

“The alternative is to get locked back up in your cell until you choose to comply.”

Q’s eyes light up and he smirks deviously. “Then lock me up, mate.”

 

~

 

Q doesn’t look up when the door opens and he doesn’t flinch when the lights flicker on. He doesn’t move at all and he hopes it sends a message that he’s not having any of this.

“Q, right?”

The voice is new and unfamiliar, certainly not Double-O Seven, but definitely in the same brutish category of rough and tough. And definitely more bark than bite. Q chooses to ignore him in favor of snuggling the thin blanket even tighter around himself.

“Petya?” The agent tries again.

Q tenses at the name, failing to hold back the shocked intake of breath so sharp it cuts. He pushes himself up to glare at the agent, eyes wild and intense. While Double-O Seven had vaguely startled him with his past as Pyotr, the newcomer was playing something dangerous with his memories as Petya.

“You have no right to call me Petya. My name is Peter. And I won’t say it again.”

The new agent is taken aback, but Q recognizes the understanding crossing his face. The agent must not have known the impact “Petya” had on him, but Q’s certain he’s put the pieces together by now.

“Sorry, didn’t mean it like that, I’ve known my fair share of Pyotrs and Petyas growing up.” The agent pulls out the metal chair and straddles in backwards, steepling his hand on the backrest to prop his chin up. 

“Wonderful,” Q gripes, “Russian, then. So are you a Sasha or an Ivan?”

“I’m Double-O Six,” the agent ignores the snark and grins wolfishly, “known to the recruits as the bad cop.”

Q scoffs at that. Bad cop his ass. 

“You know, you’ve been due to start training for almost a week, now. You’re not a prisoner here.”

Q looks at him then pointedly looks at the lock on the door. “Are you certain that I’m not a prisoner? Because from my understanding, I’m not to leave this room until I do as you lot say. Perhaps I even risk death if I continue my refusals. Don’t amuse yourself, Sasha, don’t pretend I have any free choice in the matter.”

“I never said I’m a Sasha, what if I’m an Ivan?” The agent muses, completely disregarding the bulk of Q’s words. 

“This is ridiculous.”

“Come on, Q, at least come see what the others are up to,” Double-O Six says gently, face serious again.

It takes a moment but Q finally threads a stressed hand through his messy curls. “Fine, just to observe. Lead the way.”

 

~ ~ ~

 

“Recruit,” Double-O Seven barks, snatching a fistful of Q’s hair and slamming him into the floor, “you’re slacking.”

“Shove off,” Q groans, struggling to break from the hold. 

“Yeah, no can do, kiddo,” Seven laughs and yanks him back up. He leans in to whisper in Q’s ear, “stop fucking around. Do you understand how close you are to termination? Scrawny little thing like you, can’t even land a hit. Get smart and get your act together.”

“I said,” Q manages to grind out under his breath, “shove the fuck off.”

Next thing Seven knows, he’s flipped onto his back with the wind knocked out of him. He wheezes before he breaks into raucous laughter. He shifts just enough to meet emerald green eyes, rage quickly dulling and leaving raw adrenaline in its wake. The boy is panting, seething from his burst, and Seven can’t help the smug grin that turns the corners of his lips. 

“There we go,” Seven manages. But Q is already gone, expelling his wrath on the sparring mat. 

 

~

 

“Do you fuck all your recruits? Or am I special,” Q sneers, green eyes lit with that intoxicating fire that Bond has grown accustomed to. He’s not surprised when Q eyes him up and spits a mocking “sir” as an afterthought. 

Bond grabs a fistful of brown curls and growls low in his throat, pulling Q’s head back to expose his pale neck. Chapped lips dust over Q’s adam’s apple as he swallows in anticipation. It’s not long before Bond’s wonderful tongue is swirling teasing patterns over his pulse points, teeth scraping dangerously close to his veins. 

Q lets his hands wander up to explore the sculpted muscles on Bond’s back but his wrists are suddenly grabbed by strong, calloused hands that promptly pin them above his head. 

And,  _ fuck-- _

Yeah. Yeah, that’s good.

 

~

 

Q doesn’t like the way Double-O Seven is looking at him from his high and mighty perch through the bulletproof  glass. It could very well be a scare tactic, but it’s slightly disturbing how Seven keeps his eyes on Q, only Q, despite the twenty or so other recruits populating the training floor. Q sighs; if he has an audience, he might as well put on a show.

“Recruits, fall in,” Double-O Six commands, voice carrying through the concrete chamber. Jumping up from his previous pushup stance, Q steps into line, stiffening into perfect military posture. Back straight, chin up, feet firmly shoulder length apart, and hands neatly flattened into the small of his back. The image of perfection.

Well, until a single stray curl falls into his face. But Q knows how this goes. He cuts his losses and keeps position, awaiting for Double-O Six to chastise him. Despite the fact that Q keeps his eyes straight as per regulation, he knows Seven is still watching him, the ice of his gaze burning into the back of his head. 

“Your assignment today,” Six barks, “is to infiltrate a mark’s home and recover digital files,” Six waves around a box of flashdrives for emphasis. “Unlike your previous missions, half of you will plan and run the operation while the other half will execute the operation. We’re not a conventional government agency. It’s not uncommon to be a field operative one day and a handler the next. You must be ready to assume any and all roles within our organization. Any questions?”

“No, sir,” the recruits enunciate every syllable in completely perfect, practiced unison. Double-Oh Six can’t help a satisfied grin. Before dismissing the line, he pairs the recruits off and hands off the appropriate mission folders and drives. Getting to Q, he leans in just slightly and barely whispers his warning just loud enough for only Q to hear.

“Be on your best behavior, Q, they’re watching.”

He’s gone before Q can question his meaning.

 

~

 

“I don’t even see how this is debatable, Q. I’m obviously going in and you’re handling me. I mean, no offense, man, but have you seen yourself? Some people are brawn and some people are brains.”

“Just because your biceps are larger than your brain doesn’t mean you’re most fit to operate this mission, F,” Q counters with his assigned partner, “even if you were correct in your assumption that I am physically inadequate, this isn’t a brute force situation. It’s manipulation, infiltration, and technological expertise. Do you even know how to recover files? Without a trace? When was the last time you were even in the tech lab?”

“Chill, mate, it’s just a flashdrive. You stick it in and drag the shit in. Easy,” F says, casually tossing the flashdrive around and catching it with nimble fingers.

Q rolls his eyes swipes the drive mid-throw. “I’m operating and you’re handling. If you won’t accept that then we’ll settle it on that mat, but I’m sure they’ll dock us for it. My record’s already a mess. I have nothing to lose. You, on the other hand,” Q trails off, looking F right in the eye.

“You’re impossible, fine,” F acquiesces, “but you’re going to have to help me plan this shit.”

“As if I’d trust you to plan it, anyway,” Q scoops up the file and beckons for F to follow him into the tech lab. 

 

~

 

“Q signing on.”

“ _ Copy that, Q. This is F, _ ” the voice is rough and slightly fuzzy through Q’s comm. He refuses the urge to run his tongue over the filling-like implant on his top left backmost moler. The modified SoundBite had been implanted less than twenty-four hours ago and was still slightly uncomfortable. But Q likes to think himself a professional, so he pushes the discomfort away and plows on.

“Wonderful,” Q mutters, “On location and about to begin phase one.”

“ _ Remember, you first goal is to-- _ ”

“Locate and seduce the target. I  _ know _ , F. I wrote the bloody plan myself.”

“ _ I’m just trying to do my job _ .”

“And I am mine,” Q quips as he grabs a flute of champagne from a waiter, downing it in one gulp, “so kindly shut up.”

Q loosely leans against the bar, ankle crossed over the other, sipping a fizzy water disguised as a vodka soda.  _ Good, just like I taught you. Blend in but keep your wits about you _ , praises the voice in his head that sounds an awful lot like Double-O Seven. Q hums for the cruelty in its humor. But then the voice starts again and Q nearly jumps. 

“ _ This is Double-O Seven signing on, by the way. This is your reminder that Ops will be monitoring and evaluating your assignment. However, we will not intervene unless absolutely necessary. Hopefully you won’t hear my voice again tonight. Good luck, Q. _ ”

“Yessir,” Q murmurs into his drink, recomposing himself. The last thing he needs is to blow his cover because his comm startled him. In his defence, he can’t help it that Double-O Seven’s voice regularly echoes its training in his head. 

With his focus back on track, Q scans the room until it lands on a middle-aged man in a bespoke suit that shows off his broad shoulders. He watches and waits until the small crowd around the mark thins out. Q takes one more sip of his water and makes his move.

“Initiating phase one.”

“ _ Copy _ .”

If there’s one thing that Q is completely confident in, it’s the the art of seduction. Pyotr, Peter, those boys are long dead and gone, but they passed on their expertise of the more vulgar kind to Q. The organization’s sessions on seduction were brief, succinct, clinical, even. But Q knows his shit firsthand and he knows that his victim will fall right into his trap.

They always do.

“Privyet,” Q greets in shy, purposefully English-accented Russian, keeping his gaze downward but raising his eyes just slightly to meet the mark’s. His soft smile is the perfect balance of reserved and coy. The mark doesn’t even speak before Q knows he has him. He knows that look, the one that peruses every curve and angle on his body. The one that devours him.

“Why hello,” the mark hums in his own hefty Russian accent, “now what did I do to deserve such a pretty thing, hm?” He lifts Q’s head with two fingers, inspecting and appreciating his features. Q internally cheers when he remembers how to force a light blush.

“I couldn’t help but introduce myself,” Q’s back to his perfect posh, injected with an air of juvenile enthusiasm, “I’m a huge fan of your work, Mr. Panarov. If… If you’re not too busy, I’d love to discuss some of your...  _ theories _ ,” Q grins mischievously. 

The boy can practically hear the metaphorical snap of his hunting snare. 

“Of course, dorogoy,” he grins like a shark, “let’s go somewhere a little more private.”

Q smirks as soon as Smirnov turns his back. He follows loosely, letting the crowd drown out his murmurs to F, “initiating phase two. Going dark.”

“ _ Copy. Don’t do anything dumb _ .”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Just as Q and F had predicted, Panarov leads Q to his private wing and, even better, to his own bedroom, which happens to be connected to his office. Q can’t help but add a little pep into his step, smug with satisfaction. The show has been delayed long enough yet Q knows that his audience is still listening in, still watching, all the same. 

It’s time for a proper performance.

Q wastes no time in pushing Panarov onto the bed, gracefully swinging a leg over to straddle the man. 

 

~

 

As soon as Q feels Panarov’s breathing slow into a low lentando, he expertly peels himself away from the brute, who abruptly snores in response. Q quietly pulls his clothes back on, waiting for Panarov to settle back into the duvet before deeming it safe to go at the office door. He almost laughs when he sees the simple four-digit passcode lock drilled into the doorframe. It takes less than minute to crack it, what with four of the buttons showing off their usage like flashing lights. Q muses how much longer this would have taken had they sent F instead.

“Q reporting. Initiating phase three,” the boy yawns once the door is shut behind him again. He’s rigged the passcode to deny all access attempts for the next forty minutes but understands that brute force could come knocking it down in five. 

“ _ That was fast _ ,” F quips through the comm, “ _ the files should be on the main computer. I’m sure you’ll be able to find them, King Boffin. _ ”

Q silently disconnects all servers and slips the drive into a carefully inspected port, choosing to ignore F’s comment rather than rise to the bait. One of them has to be a professional here. “Files are currently in transit, estimated five minutes until completion. Please prepare to dispatch extraction in about ten.”

“ _ Copy _ .”

Q wastes no times in securing the files, quickly encrypting both the drive and his dubious activities on the mother machine. He’s tucking away the drive when he hears a short, soft beep from the bedroom door. 

“Shit,” Q grumbles, acknowledging Panarov’s current state of consciousness. He glances around the room and makes for the door leading to the hallway, tapping in the code from before. It beeps negatively and Q swears again.

“Package is secured but mark is active. F, I need you to override the main door from the office to the corridor. It shouldn’t be too difficult. I really hope you’ve been paying attention in tech this past week.”

“ _ I’m on it, just hold on _ ,” F replies with poorly-masked nerves. Q swallows tensely when he hears the beep again, this time followed by pounding on the door and a lieu of some not-so-pretty Russian words that Q knows all too well.

“Today would be nice,” Q grumbles.

“ _ Almost there, Q, just hang on…. There! _ ”

Q doesn’t hold back his sigh of relief when the door clicks with a positive beep, signalling the okay to yank it open. Q slips into the corridor as quietly as he can, but is still only partially surprised when the guards immediately notice him. With the staircase directly in front of him, Q is thankful for the advantage. He takes the steps three at a time, hand hovering at the lapel of his jacket where he knows his SIG mini is hidden and waiting.

“Hostiles in pursuit, three hot. Requesting extraction,” Q barks as he ducks into the crowd of the party, keeping his head down. He slows to a brisk walking pace and heads for the main door, offering a pleasant smile to the servant manning the door. 

“ _ Extraction is in position. There should be a grey car with a burnt out right taillight five-hundred yards to the north. _ ”

“In sight,” Q affirms, quickening his pace. He doesn’t dare look over his shoulder. Almost there.

“Hey!”

Q flinches when he hears the brisk footfalls of the guards behind him. He practically jumps when he hears the first gunshot. That’s all it takes to send him sprinting to the car.

“ _ Q?! _ ”

“Almost there,” Q pants, more to himself than to F.

He’s only about a hundred yards from the car when a couple of guards block his path, having cut through the neighbor’s yard and through the shrubbery. Startled, Q halts, thus failing to dodge a bullet from his pursuers. All he can feel is a stinging hot throb in his left bicep accompanied by a peculiar wetness. He sucks in a sharp breath and yells at himself to focus.

Q doesn’t even register what he’s doing when he instinctively reaches into his jacket and rips the SIG mini from its concealed stitching. He can’t remember hearing the shots but he sure as hell hears the deafening ringing in his ears. The voice that announce “two hostiles down” may sound like Q’s but he can’t completely claim that it is indeed his own. 

The situation doesn’t hit him until he’s sliding into the grey car and slamming the door, F’s shouting vibrating his teeth and echoing through his skull. Hands remove his suit jacket and inspect the numbing spot in his arm. Q hisses and tries to pull his arm away but the hands steady him.

“Fuck,” Q seethes, adrenaline high and emotions swirling.

“Language,” says an all-too familiar voice that has Q sharply turning his head to the person connected to the hands attending his arm. The boy scowls when he recognizes his fellow passenger as none other than Double-O Seven.

“I’m quite impressed,” the senior agent continues, amused with Q’s distaste, “that was quite a show you put on back there.”

“Enjoyed it, hm?” Q spits, tensing when Seven fastens a tourniquet above the wound. 

“Yes, well,” Seven’s schools his expression into something much more serious now, “you’ve exceeded expectations, Q. You aren’t expected your first kill until graduation, let alone your second. It seems your actions are unprecedented. I’m not sure if Mallory will be pleased or pissed with this progression,” he pauses, “either way… I’m proud of you.”

Q doesn’t reply, slumping into his seat and resting his head on the window to watch the lights blur together in motion, the weight of his actions finally settling into his conscience.

There’s no turning back, not anymore.

  
  



End file.
